“Your situation is unchanged,” she snapped. “Mine is changed greatly. I’m capable of supporting myself now and can live independently of all the people trying to manage my life for their own gain! Independently!”
He went very still. “Support yourself how precisely? To my knowledge there are only a certain number of occupations open to a young woman of your standing… and none of them are reputable. What have you been up to in my absence, Miss Barrett?”
Jane could have struck him. If she’d thought slapping his face would have served any purpose other than to hurt her own hand, she might have done so. “You’ve no wish to marry me. That was true eight years ago and it is still true today. So don’t pretend to be concerned for my welfare, the state of my virtue, or my reputation. If you’d had a care for any of those things you wouldn’t have abandoned me when you did and proclaimed to the world that you’d rather lose your life at the barrel of a French gun than to wed me!”
She wasn’t going to tell him about her publishing career. Her credits to date might have been nothing more than nasty little pamphlets filled with rehashed society gossip that she got second hand through the servants, but they were hers nonetheless. Published under a nom de plume, they had earned a nice little income for her. It wasn’t enough to live on in the style she was currently accustomed to but it gave her a sense of pride in having her own money, even if it was languishing in a bank under a false and masculine name. It was her emergency fund, in case her father had ever gotten it into his head to marry her off to someone else rather than wait for the unlikely return of the man before her. She’d have run then, and hidden until she could claim her inheritance. Would it last her six months without having to exist in absolute penury? Probably not, she thought grimly. But there were worse things than simple and temporary poverty.
*
Marcus frowned. This was more than wounded pride from his ill-timed and misconstrued statements all those years ago. He found himself presented with, possibly, the rarest creature of all—a woman with no wish to marry. It wasn’t exactly unheard of but for a woman in Miss Barrett’s position it was very unusual. At least he could be certain that she wouldn’t marry Charles. He’d have to proceed cautiously on that front.
Curious at her clear desire to pursue spinsterhood, he asked, “I must ask, Miss Barrett, is it the state of marriage you are averse to… or me?”
Her chin came up and her gaze was steady and unflinching as she said, “Are they not one and the same for me, my lord? Never in all of my life have I been able to entertain the notion of being married to any man other than you. And as your desires clearly ran in a very different direction, even prior to your unwilling absence, I had to assume that we would not have a happy union. Therefore it has not been something to look forward to or pin one’s hopes and joy upon.”
“There are things about that last day before I left that I regret,” he said softly. “Among them are the rather cowardly manner in which I fled my familial duties and also that I wounded your feelings in the process. What you heard, Miss Barrett, was not a reflection on your person or on the idea of someday being wed to you. I was, however, adamantly opposed to the idea of marrying when you were little more than a child.”
“We were to be wed when I was sixteen, my lord,” she protested. “And while I realize that is still younger than most gently-bred girls marry today, it’s hardly unheard of.”
She didn’t know, Marcus realized. Somehow, no one had ever bothered to inform her that the already hastened timeline of their union was to have been hastened yet again. “Indeed, while sixteen is troublesome to me, it was not our impending marriage in two years that forced me to flee. Your father, and I apologize as it seems you are unaware of this, was pressuring mine to have us wed immediately… when you were not even yet fourteen, I believe.”
Miss Barrett blinked at him for several seconds. “Surely, you misunderstood. As unfeeling as my father may appear at times, even he would not stoop so low!”
“I did not misunderstand, Miss Barrett. I apologize for revealing this information to you in such a manner. I had thought you aware of the circumstances… My father made it clear to me that the change in the original plan from eighteen to sixteen and then from sixteen to fourteen was a reflection of your stepmother’s hesitance in marrying into a household where her predecessor still resided.”
“Her predecessor!” Miss Barrett uttered the word with contempt. “I was a child attempting to run a household that would be challenging even to the most experienced of chatelaines. The servants ignored me half the time and blatantly disobeyed the other half! I would have welcomed her into that house if only to have the assistance and someone to—”
She had stopped abruptly and turned away from him, staring out into the nearly barren garden beyond.
“Someone to what, Miss Barrett?”
“Someone to talk to I suppose. Father was gone so very much and I was very alone at that time. I have learned since to enjoy the solitude and to make good use of it,” she replied stiffly.
Marcus knew something of solitude. He’d had many solitary hours in his cell on that small island to reflect on his actions, on what had been asked of him and to see the uselessness of his life beforehand. He had many regrets, amongst them all the time he’d wasted on idle pursuits and things that brought no meaning to his existence.
“My methods of avoiding your father’s request were questionable, Miss Barrett. But I assure that my motives were not,” he uttered in complete earnestness. “Those things you heard me say were only a reflection of my unwillingness to marry you at such a tender and inappropriate age. Nothing more.”
“That changes nothing,” she said. “Regardless of your reasons for protest—and under the circumstances those very hurtful things I heard are certainly mitigated—I am not that same desperate young girl you left behind. I find I am quite content to remain unmarried. I had grown to embrace the idea of it. And now, on a whim—your whim—my life turns once more.”
Marcus considered his answer carefully. “Miss Barrett, to simply renege on this contract will amount to financial ruin for my family. All I ask is that you give me time to court you and to attempt to establish a relationship between us that has nothing to do with that infernal contract, our meddling fathers or our very muddied past. Let us get to know one another before we make any hasty decisions.”
His strategy had been sound in making her an offer that he knew she would not be able to refuse. Marcus watched her struggle with that, wrestling to find some way around it. He could see the moment of capitulation on her face before she even opened her mouth to speak.
“It isn’t as if I have the option to reject such a request, now is it?” The admission was uttered grudgingly without anything resembling graciousness. In fact, she was quite curt. “Very well, my lord, I consent to your courtship. I only feel it sporting to warn you that I am unlikely to be swayed.”
Marcus smiled. If he’d learned one thing during his time in that French prison it was exactly how hard he was willing to fight to keep what was his. “And I feel it only to sporting to warn you, Miss Barrett, I am unlikely to give up.”
Chapter Three
Given the excitement of the evening and the unusual turn of events that had occurred, supper was served on trays as everyone retreated to their rooms. For Marcus, he had retreated to the study where his father waited for him.
The old man was stooped in his chair and aged far more than a mere eight years ought to have wrought upon him. Haggard, weak and rail thin, he looked to be near death and a far cry from the vigorous man Marcus had quarreled so heatedly with.
“You’ve come back,” the old man said, his voice low and quavering. His lips did not move as much as they ought to have and the words were garbled, though still audible.
“It was not my wish to stay away so long. I had not intended to be captured,” Marcus said, striving for a lighter tone. There were elements to his long disappearance that could not yet be revea
led. There was too much at stake.
Marcus took a moment and studied the old man, noting every change in his appearance. It hurt him to see his father so. It was a stark depiction of the fragility and finite nature of life. It was also a stinging reminder that he did not have long to try and make things right, or as right as they might ever be.
“Your willfulness did this,” the old man mumbled. “You left, and I had to try to save face… we were barely keeping the creditors at bay. And then this… my own body betrayed me. You’ll make it right!”
Marcus didn’t protest. “If Miss Barrett agrees, I will honor the arrangement between our families. If she does not, I will not force her.”
“Bah! You will do as you are told,” he snapped and banged his fist against the wooden arm of his wheeled chair. “Finally! Why you can’t be as obedient and eager to save this family and our good name as your cousin, Charles, I will never understand!”
Some things had not changed at all while he had been gone it seemed. His father’s temperament was as ill as ever and his tyrannical demands remained the same. The same tired and repetitive comparisons to his worthless cousin continued. If only they knew, Marcus thought. The urge to blurt out the truth, that Charles had betrayed him for his own selfish ends was there, but it was too damaging.
He would not utter something that could ultimately hurt the future of the Elsingham estates. Marcus could not afford to have the same hotheaded response to those things that he once did. There was no driving need to test the boundaries or have his father concede defeat. He was no longer desperate for the old man’s approval and attention. Prison had taught him many things, and one of them was to choose his battles well. Fighting the old man would only end poorly. And as they were both in agreement on his course of action, it was easy enough to yield to some degree. “Yes. I will. Not because you demand it of me but because I committed myself to do so years earlier and now her age is no longer an impediment.”
“And if she’s unwilling? What then? We can’t repay the debt!” The old man snapped the words out with ferocity that was not at all impeded by his drawn mouth. “You’re as worthless as you ever were to me!”
Marcus let the hurt wash through him, settling deep. But on the surface, at least, he remained calm. “I will do everything in my power to ensure that does not happen, short of violating my own ethics.”
“We can’t afford your ethics! Your damned stepmother is going to break me… one new gown after another even when she’s been told no. And now you’re back and she’ll want more new gowns as the mourning rags won’t do! It would have been better if you had stayed gone and I’d had you declared dead in the House of Lords!”
It was not unexpected. He’d harbored no great illusions that his father would be overjoyed at his return. But he’d thought, or hoped at the very least, that there might be some relief. It had been a foolish hope it would seem. “I see. I’m glad to see that you’re so overjoyed and happy at my safe return, Father. It means the world to me.”
“I’m happy that the contract will be honored and that we can live as we were meant to all along instead of pinching every pence like a shopkeeper!” his father groused. “If you were a good son, you’d never have gone at all!”
Marcus rose. “And if you’d been a better father, I wouldn’t have had to. We all have things to regret in this. I won’t add more to it. Good evening, sir. I shall retire, assuming that there is a room for me here.”
“It’ll be yours one day whether I like it or not,” the duke said with a shrug that lifted only his right shoulder, the left remaining paralyzed at his side. “I’ll not raise a scandal by having you tossed out into the cold now.”
“At least your priorities are in order then,” Marcus said and rose to his feet. “By all means, let’s avoid a scandal.”
Exiting the library, he climbed the stairs and headed in the direction of his old suite. The maids were airing it out, having made the bed up with fresh linens. Water for washing was being kept warm for him on the hearth and a supper tray had been laid on a table nearby. As he entered the chamber, two maids were there.
“You may go,” he said. He wanted to be alone with his own thoughts and even the presence of servants was too much.
“Should we turn down your bed, my lord?”
“I can manage. It’s fine.” He gestured toward the door and the two maids rushed out giggling and whispering under their breaths.
Alone once more, he removed his coat and jerked at the knots of his neckcloth. After so long in the rags that were all that remained of his uniform and then the simple clothing he’d procured for the journey home, the trappings of his old life felt stifling in so many ways.
In prison, working like any common laborer, back-breaking hours hauling rock and dirt with the hot sun beating down on him, all he’d thought about was returning home. His survival had been fueled by only two things, revenge and reclaiming what was his. He would make Charles pay for his part in sending him to that hellhole. But it had been the idea of retreating once more into the isolated luxury of the upper classes that allowed him to cling to hope in those early days. The idea of sleeping in soft beds draped with clean linens, of eating rich foods and washing them down with only the best of wines had become more and more distant until those things seemed more fantasy than memory.
“I do not belong here anymore,” he whispered aloud to the empty room. But if not there, where? He was not a common laborer though his hands would belie that at present. But he wasn’t the same spoiled aristocrat he’d once been. He was lost in some netherworld between the two. Somehow, he’d have to make that work, to carve out a place for himself in a world that now seemed rather useless and silly and amongst people who seemed the same. Regardless of what his fate might hold, he would not allow Charles to claim the dukedom.
Miss Barrett was an intriguing aberration though. And she had a secret. He would find out what it was. He would also find out what Charles was up to. His cousin had never been the trustworthy sort and his proposal to Miss Barrett smacked of desperation. While Marcus found her wholly appealing, she was not the sort of woman that Charles typically gravitated to. She didn’t simper and flirt. She was too smart, too inquisitive, and too much of a handful for him.
Lifting the cover from his supper tray, Marcus took in the assortment of food, the freshly baked bread and then examined the bottle of wine sent to accompany it. There were pleasant aspects of his return, regardless of his less than warm welcome by all parties involved.
*
In her chamber, Jane sat at her desk with her supper tray untouched before the fireplace. How could she eat at such a time? Her entire future was hanging in the balance, and she still had a deadline to meet.
Withdrawing a blank sheet of foolscap from her writing desk, she decided that the very least she could do was to announce her betrothed’s return in her latest pamphlet. The news would be well received by many and it was just the kind of story that her readers wanted—the contentious homecoming, the less than willing bride. She would use her own life in those short booklets for a change instead of simply relaying gossip about everyone else’s.
Althorn’s return would be the scandal of scandals. Everyone would talk about it and everyone, from the highest to the low, would be fascinated by it. And if she were to include in the column that there were questions as to whether or not he was truly who he claimed to be, it would buy her the necessary time. She didn’t trust his offer of six months. She didn’t really trust anyone. If what he’d said tonight about her father was true, her lack of trust in men was well founded.
Her maid entered and took one look at her ink-stained hands and sighed heavily. “Where are your writing gloves, miss?”
“They’re not writing gloves. They’re more akin to never write again gloves. I’ve tried… it’s all just illegible scratching when I wear them. We’ll just scrub extra hard in the morning to get rid of all the ink stains.”
“Miss, there’s only so much I can
do,” the maid said.
“Sarah,” she began, having eschewed the tradition of calling one’s lady’s maid by their last name. As the girl worked in the kitchens when they were back home at Oakhaven, it only complicated matters to change the rules midstream. It was only when they came to town that her father, to keep up appearances, assigned her such duties. “If I can get this column written and to the printer by tomorrow, I can have the story of his return out to the public in greater detail than any of the news sheets. That means I will sell more copies and can request a higher wage! And when I leave Oakhaven, you can come with me. I’ll have enough money to hire you on as my housekeeper. It won’t be grand, but you won’t have to work yourself to the bone like you do for Father and Mrs. Barrett.”
“I suppose you can wear gloves when with company tomorrow,” the maid said softly.
Jane glowered at her. “If you’re only here to scold, then you can leave!”
“He was very handsome,” the maid said quietly as she began tidying up the room. “Very handsome. I couldn’t help but notice that when I brought your pelisse earlier.”
“He’s handsome… and arrogant, high-handed, rude, demanding, utterly conceited and full of himself,” Jane said, continuing to write. The man was as insufferable as he’d ever been, but she was far less inclined to tolerate it in her current state.
“You gathered all that in the short conversation you had in the garden, did you?” Sarah asked with her tongue in cheek.
Jane looked up and gave the maid a warning glare. “No, I reaffirmed that opinion, formed all those years ago during our short conversation in the garden. He is as he always was. But I am not.”
The Missing Marquess of Althorn (The Lost Lords Book 3) Page 5
